


Making up

by Moonmoth



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Borussia Dortmund, Bundesliga, F/M, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 22:58:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5224229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonmoth/pseuds/Moonmoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neven and you at a party. Smut with a bit of plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making up

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Versöhnung](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5125526) by [Moonmoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonmoth/pseuds/Moonmoth). 



You hate it when Neven drags you to one of these parties and then leaves you alone. Nothing but sports officials and journalists, no one you know. The great hall is not very cosy, but that may be due to the people, you actually like old industrial architecture. The old machinery hall is probably beautiful when it’s not filled with pompous arses.

You put your empty beer glass on the tray of a waiter hurrying past, and set off to the ladies' room. After washing your hands you take a look in the mirror, adjust your top and smile. Not bad today.

Back outside in the hall you let your eyes roam and discover Neven almost at the opposite end. He is still going from group to group, exchanging a few words with everyone, welcoming new guests. It’s quite obvious that he doesn’t have time for you at the moment, and you don’t feel like trailing after him like a puppy.

You order another beer for yourself and look out of one of the huge windows, lost in thought, smiling to yourself when you see a couple of sparrows fluttering wildly, apparently arguing about a piece of white bread.

Suddenly you realize a guy is smiling back, raising his beer glass to you. You actually looked over his shoulder, but he felt addressed apparently. Athletic build, but judging by the nerd glasses, he is one of the journalists. When you look at him questioningly, he starts walking towards you.

“Hi, I’m sure this will sound totally stupid, but do we know each other from somewhere?”

It does indeed sound like the dumbest pick-up line ever, but you feel gracious today. You even think about whether you could really know him. „Well, no, I'm sorry, don’t remember meeting you before.”

“Too bad, would have been a nice opening for a conversation.”

“Well, you seem to have missed that chance.”

He laughs. „I might still just stand here and bother you with my presence.”

“Are you asking me for permission?”

“You'd have to beat me up with your umbrella, anything else I’d interpret as consent.” He actually takes a step closer and looks at you, his gaze somewhere between expectant and pondering.

“I forgot my umbrella at home unfortunately.”

“How careless of you.”

“Obviously. Would you at least tell me your name?”

“Daniel.”

“And what brought you to this party, Daniel?”

“Public relations. Sports sponsorship.” Not quite a journalist then. „And you?”

“I just accompanied someone.”

You can see he’s curious, but you don’t feel like telling him details. Luckily, he’s the kind of man who quite likes talking about himself, so he gives you a longwinded description of his job, how interesting it is getting to know all those famous athletes, negotiating advertising deals with them. Most of the names he drops you've never heard before, but you keep that to yourself.

You are at your third beer, and with every sip, the guy seems funnier. You’re laughing heartily at a silly story about his Golden Retriever and a pair of expensive running shoes when suddenly someone grabs you roughly by your arm and pulls you with him.

Neven, who doesn’t even look at you but simply drags you along.

“Hey, have you lost your mind? Let me go!”

When you break free, he finally stops and looks at you with flashing eyes, a deep crease above his nose.

You have no idea why he's so upset. „Could you please tell me what's wrong with you?”

“I don’t like to be made a fool of!” he hisses at you.

“What are you talking about?”

“Stop pretending, the guy almost fell face first into your cleavage!”

“We had a perfectly normal conversation!”

“Yeah, and I suppose the guy drooling all over you is perfectly normal as well!”

“Everything okay?” Daniel’s voice, who is suddenly standing next to you.

Neven plants himself in front of him and looks down on him. „Excuse me, I’m talking with my girlfriend, that's none of your fucking business.”

Daniel remains standing there unfazed, even though he’s half a head shorter. He looks at you quizzically.

You try to reassure him. “Yes, everything’s okay, he’ll calm down.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, don’t worry.”

Daniel nods, but looks sceptical. You smile at him and hope it looks confident. He takes another look at Neven standing there stone-faced. „Let me know if you need help,” he says before he leaves. Neven sends a withering look after him before turning to you again.

You head him off before he can say anything. “Do you seriously want to make a scene in front of all these people?”

He takes the beer glass from your hand and puts it down so angrily on one of the tables that it spills over. He curses and wipes his hand on his trousers, then grips your arm and pulls you towards the exit, you have trouble keeping up with his long strides. But instead of outside, he steers you towards a staircase leading to the basement.

“Neven, what are you doing, where are you going?”

He doesn’t answer, his mouth is a thin line. He takes your hand and pulls you further, you have to be careful you don’t fall down the stairs in your high heels. At the bottom, he drags you down a corridor with doors lined up left and right. He pushes down the handle of the first door, but it’s locked. He tries the next, and the next, and the next, then on the other side, and seems to pull more roughly at each. You try to free yourself, but he grips your hand tightly.

“Neven, what do you want down here?”

He still doesn’t answer, walks to the next door, which opens so surprisingly that he stumbles against you. He draws you into the room and closes the door. You catch a glimpse of a simple table and functional chairs and wonder if he needs a conference room now in order to argue with you.

But the fight doesn’t come, instead he puts both hands around your face and kisses you, deeply and possessively, stroking his thumbs over your cheeks, lets his tongue slide over yours, nibbles on your lower lip, on your chin, then takes your mouth again until your pulse is pounding fast and hard in your ears.

He pauses and looks down at you, his lips look red and soft, and there's something in his eyes -

He kisses you again, pushing you backwards until you feel the door in your back. Again he pauses, and when you open your eyes, you can’t see anything except his broad shoulders in front of you. He grabs your wrists and lifts them above your head, holding them in place easily with only his left hand. His lips travel along your lower jaw, then down your neck. The touch together with his warm scent is enough that you can’t think straight.

“Look at me!” His face is directly above you again. His thumb brushes over your cheek, to your mouth, forces itself between your lips, your teeth, brushing against the tip of your tongue, then slides wetly over your lower lip. His grey eyes don’t leave yours when his thumb brushes down your throat, the side of your neck, then along your collarbone, to the point where it disappears into your shirt. His flat hand skims over your shirt, the curve of you breast, the flare of your hip, then slips under your shirt. Your breath speeds up when his hand slowly slides upwards over your bare skin, over your ribs to your breast. He finds your nipple through the fabric of your bra, circles it a few times with his fingertips, then tugs and teases incessantly until you squirm and press your legs together. You’d like more physical contact, but he’s still holding you tightly, still looking at you, even though you have to close your eyes again and again.

It doesn’t leave him cold either, he is very close in front of you, his hot breath hitting your face. His hand brushes lower again to your hips, across to the inside of your thigh, just past the spot most longing to be touched. You move towards him involuntarily but he swerves, grinning so smugly you could slap him, but there’s nothing you can do except glare at him angrily. He laughs even more, runs a fingernail down your thigh next to the inseam of your jeans, enjoying that you have such difficulties keeping still.

His gaze drifts to your mouth, he kisses you again, lets go of your hands, wraps his arms around you and directs you both over to the table until you feel the edge at the back of your legs. Your belt clinks softly when he opens it, then he pulls it from the loops with a jerk.

“Hands,” is all he says. You stretch them out towards him, he winds the leather around your wrists several times and buckles the belt. Then he pushes you back onto the table until you’re lying flat, placing your tied hands above your head. He takes off your shoes, opens your trousers and tugs impatiently at the tight jeans until he finally manages to take them off of you. He reaches for your panties, but instead of slipping them off, he tears them left and right, throws the shreds onto the floor.

He pushes your knees towards your body and then apart. Then, at long last, his fingers slide between your labia, and every time they brush over the right spot, you push into his touch. Finally he grabs your hips and pulls you right up to the edge of the table.

When you hear the sound of his zip opening, the yearning tug below your navel becomes almost unbearable. You lift your head for a moment and see his hand stroking his cock several times before bringing the tip into position. He puts his hands at the back of your knees and pushes into you hard. Withdraws almost completely and thrusts again. He’s so incredibly large and incredibly deep. That's all you feel, everything else around you just falls away.

He picks up the pace, goes faster but no less hard. You are completely helpless, unable to find a hold anywhere. He still has his hands at the back of your knees, but in spite of that, every thrust makes you slide backwards on the table, until he has to pull you back to the edge.

“Take off your shirt, please.” If you’re not allowed to touch him, you want to see him properly at least.

He stays inside you and smiles while he unbuttons first his cuffs, then his shirt with deliberate slowness. You flex your muscles to urge him on, his smile falters briefly and he gasps.

“Always so impatient,” he says, slipping the shirt from his broad shoulders and throwing it onto a chair.

You know his body well by now, but sometimes, in unfamiliar surroundings, it hits you again how beautiful he is. The line from his broad chest to his narrow hips, where his trouser still hang low, seems incredibly perfect. He places his hands on the back of your knees and starts moving again, and you can see his abs flex with every thrust.

After a while, he pushes your legs together, takes your feet and puts them on his bare shoulder. Now it's even tighter, even more intense. His rhythm is still relentless, you can hear him panting, and a few damp strands curl on his forehead.

Then he withdraws unexpectedly. “Turn around.”

You hold your tied hands out towards him so he can pull you up. He helps you up, turns you around and pushes you down on the table, immediately shoving himself into you again. He grabs your hips; he can hold on to you better now, thrust even harder and deeper. The angle is different, better, the spot he’s hitting is so perfect you bite into the sleeve of your shirt so as not to get too loud.

He leans over you and places his hand at the back of your neck. “Look at me!”

You can only turn your head to the side, you can’t see him. He licks over your outer ear, bites slightly into your ear lobe. “You're beautiful right before you come.” His voice is very rough.

It really just takes a few more thrusts before you come violently. Neven lets himself go almost at the same moment and moans loudly into your ear, muttering things you don’t understand, while still wave after wave rolls through your body. Slowly they grow weaker.

He kisses the back of your neck before he straightens up and slides out of you. He helps you up and unties the belt from your arms. Your knees are so weak that you have to sit on the table for a moment.

He hands you your trousers, then he picks up your torn panties from the floor and stuffs them into his pocket.

“What do you want with that?” You still sound breathless.

“Souvenir,” he says and grins as he watches you slip naked into your jeans and close the zip very carefully, then thread the belt back through the loops.

When you’re dressed again, he takes your wrists and gently kisses the places where they are a bit reddened from the belt.

“Can we go home now?” You have absolutely no desire to go back to that party now.

“Yes, we’re going home,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes. “I'm not done with you yet.”


End file.
